


The Wind Speaks Your Name

by Anonymous



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Child Neglect, Female Tom Riddle, Gen, Good Albus Dumbledore, Hogwarts First Year, Hufflepuff Harry Potter, No Bashing, Precognition, Present Tense, Professor Tom Riddle, Prophetic Dreams, Secret Identity, bashing is bad 4 the soul, no beta we die like men, starts at
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-25
Updated: 2019-05-22
Packaged: 2019-12-07 02:11:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18228503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: A tale of intermingling loyalties, non-romantic love, and a boy who just wants to survive.~~~For as long as Harry can remember, he has had recurring dreams about people who aren't real. Two particularly noteworthy dream characters of his are a man who looks just like how Harry thinks he will when he's all grown up and a woman with sun-fire for hair.On his eleventh birthday, he awakens to a new dream of a mysterious woman whose voice whispers sweet promises in his ear.~~~AU beginning on Harry's eleventh birthday. Voldemort plays a bigger role than in PS/does not follow main plot of PS.





	1. Promise

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: This is a work of fan fiction that uses characters from and the world of Harry Potter, owned by J.K. Rowling.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Happy eleventh, Harry Potter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FEATURING HARRY POTTER, CHEF EXTRAORDINAIRE

_The wind speaks your name, Harry Potter. She sings your triumphs upon her zephyrs for all Visionaries to hear._

_She will come for you again, just as she came for your parents so many moons ago._

_Tomorrow or seven years from now, someday._

_That is her promise. You shall return; you shall be reunited to her embrace._

* * *

> **promise,** **_n._ **
> 
> A declaration or assurance made to another person (usually with respect to the future), stating a commitment to give, do, or refrain from doing a specified thing or act, or guaranteeing that a specified thing will or will not happen.
> 
> — Oxford English Dictionary

* * *

Harry awakens with his heart thudding in his chest, the cupboard silent but for the sound of his own breaths. In and out, in and out…he calms, breathes slower and slower, as if to fall into the realm of slumber once more. The vague impressions of a haunting dream slip through his fingers like the desert sand, and though he tries to hold on with his small hands, they fade away like the others, leaving behind only the certainty of a feminine voice. It is just like the recurring visions of an unknown bespectacled man and a woman with sun-fire for hair, only this one is new.

If not for the man’s eyes, he might think him his own future self, they look so uncannily alike. They are a warm brown, warmer than Harry’s little cot under the stairs, unheated except for what drifts in through the grate.

Harry’s are a sharp, brilliant green, but most days they are clouded over with something dense and heavy, like overhanging clouds that threaten rain.

He shakes off the feeling. It is July 31st, 1991, and though it is his eleventh birthday, he knows he will receive nothing. No presents, no party, no cake, not even a wish, unlike his cousin Dudley.

It is the summer hols, the sun rising early and unhindered by dreary forecasts, and though he does not need to attend school, he should be waking up now to prepare breakfast as he always does, or Aunt Petunia will have things to say.

He stretches, splays his body across the sheets underneath, and almost knocks the covers over as his leg exceeds the bounds of his confinement. Over the edge and onto the floor, but without causing a ruckus, because Aunt Petunia wouldn’t like to be woken up early. Not by him.

He presses the door to his cupboard open just a crack, enough to check both ways for signs that someone else has awoken before him. There is no one, and there almost never is, but it pays to be sure.

He walks tiptoe, steps on hardwood muffled by the cotton of his socks, towards the kitchen. Brushing his teeth will come later. For this task, all that matters is that his hands are clean, and for that there is soap at the kitchen sink.

He lathers his hands thoroughly, humming to the tune of "Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star" like those notices posted around the public loos advise him to.

He pats his hands dry on a dish towel hanging from the handle of the oven.

He will make pancakes, he decides, because those are a breakfast food that his Aunt and Uncle will not complain about. He will serve it with sickly sweet syrup, the pancakes drowned in it, and with bacon, sausage, and juice (for the Dursleys love to eat healthy, and it is one whole serving of Fruits and Vegetables), so much that even his Uncle and his cousin both cannot consume it all. If he is lucky, they will allow him to have the leftovers of the pancakes, and the thin, pretty little things will suffice as a replacement for all the birthday cakes he never had.

He hears a shuffling sound coming from the direction of the stairs. “Is that you, boy?” his Aunt says, voice muffled with the lingering crusts of sleep.

“Yes, Aunt Petunia,” he replies dutifully as he retrieves the pancake mix, the obligatory egg (“Just Add An Egg!” the packaging declares cheerfully), a mixing bowl, a spatula, and a non-stick pan. “I’m making breakfast.” He cracks the egg into the bowl, dumps in the mix (but not so carelessly that it throws up a cloud of dust, because if it did, he would be the one to clean it up), and stirs.

“Right, then,” his Aunt says, rubbing her eyes tiredly. “Say, isn’t today…” she trails off, before shaking her head and lumbering to the living room.

Five years ago, Harry might have held out the hope that she would at least remember and acknowledge the date of his birthday, if nothing else. But he knows better now.

The one time he tried to remind her, the morning he turned six, still thinking back on the great celebration his cousin had only five weeks previous, she promptly sat him down on the living room couch, clutching his wrist tightly.

“If you know what’s good for yourself, boy, you will never bring up the date that you, this scourge upon our family, was brought into the world again. Do you understand?”

He didn’t understand all the words at the time, but nodded anyway, the gist of the message ringing true through his mind.

July 31st is a day like any other, a day of sweltering summer sun and languid ladybirds, and it is most definitely not the birthday of the freak Harry Potter. Harry Potter, for all intents and purposes in their household, has no birthday, just as demons and other dread beings do not.

He turns on the stove, and the heating element glows orange. He places the pan on its surface to warm, and waits. Upstairs, he hears the sound of a tap running and water splashing. He drizzles a few drops of water on the pan. They sizzle and bounce around, skidding on the surface; it is hot enough.

As he prepares the breakfast, he is faintly aware of the sounds of his cousin’s family waking up and going through their morning routines, just like he himself is. He sets the table for three, plates the food in great big mounds, and waits for Dudley to thump down the stairs just as he finishes.

While they eat, he brushes his teeth, rinses his mouth, and washes his face.

After they are satiated, bellies full with the product of his tireless work (Aunt Petunia demands perfection, but sometimes Harry suspects he has become the better cook in her absence from the position), Harry is called to the table. He clears their used dishes, utensils, and napkins. Finally, out of their sight, he is granted a single pancake of his own, though without syrup, which is cheap (unlike maple, he knows from grocery runs to the market) and yet paradoxically too expensive for Harry Potter.

As he carefully cuts the pancake into quadrants, then octants, the doorbell rings.

His first gut instinct is to get out of the way; to hide so that whatever visitor his Uncle has does not have to lay eyes on his disgrace. His Uncle gives him a meaningful glare ( _Keep quiet, do not show yourself_ ) as he passes by on his way to the front door.

On any other day, Harry would not risk being caught listening in on his Uncle’s conversation with the visitor, but on his birthday today, he feels almost compelled to. It is as if something in the air demands it, declaring that _something_ or _everything_ is about to change.

From around a corner, Harry hears the stranger speak. He does not dare to peek, lest he be seen and driven away.

“Good morning,” the man says, voice low and calm. “Vernon Dursley, I presume?”

Uncle Vernon must have seen something that stopped him in his tracks and froze him on the spot, because for a few stunned moments of silence, he says none of his usual platitudes. When he does speak, his speech is stunted, as if he were choking down something unpleasant.

“You…! You’re one of them freaks!” he splutters furiously. “I won’t have your kind encroaching on my home!”

“Oh no,” the man says patiently, as if he had not been called a freak only moments ago. “I will not impose on your hospitality any longer than I must. I am here to see your nephew, Harry Potter, and if you prefer, I can bring him elsewhere to speak with him. Goodness knows some fresh air will do wonders in this weather.” He pauses. “He is here, is he not? Harry?” he calls.

Harry, though already hidden from view, takes a step back in apprehension, remembering all the lessons on Stranger Danger and vicious criminals who kidnapped and sold children for money. He remembers his Uncle’s threats to abandon him on the streets, how his unique eyes would fetch a higher price. He knows his Uncle wouldn’t, because then the police would come and there would be inconvenient _questions_ , but the fear hits home anyway.

Then he thinks of how the man’s voice is gentle and inviting and old like the nearby park’s familiar, ancient oak tree and the comforting shade it provides, like the kind grandfather Harry always wanted but never had.

Before he can respond, Aunt Petunia makes her appearance at the door.

“YOU!” she screeches, oddly reminiscent of her husband’s bellow a minute ago, only higher and shriller.

“Indeed,” the man says. “It is good to see you again, Petunia. I take it you have received my letter. Now, if I may, you will only have me in your hair a little longer…”

“Fine,” his Aunt says, shushing his Uncle’s protests. “If you must. But bring the boy back before dinner!”

“I daresay Harry would enjoy a better meal away from the company of your home,” the man says with a hint of knowing humour in his voice. “But do not worry. I will make sure he is returned safely.”

Harry hears his Aunt mutter something unintelligible under her breath.

“BOY!” she shouts in the direction of the dining room. “COME HERE!”

Harry suppresses a shudder at the volume of her voice and peers around the corner before stepping out entirely. Standing at the door is an elderly man clad in the strangest clothes, a flamboyant red that is entirely out of place for Little Whinging, as if he had come to life out of a children’s cartoon full of fire-breathing dragons and spell-slinging sorcerers. With his long beard and half-moon glasses, he resembles what Santa Claus might look like dressed for warmer weather than winter at the North Pole.

“Hello,” he says tentatively, unsure how to proceed.

“Well, come on, don’t just stand there,” his Aunt snaps, and he moves forward until he is standing at her side.

“This,” she says, gesturing towards the man with a jab of her finger, “is Albus Dumbledore, and he will be taking you out today to discuss your schooling. Behave yourself; we have no need for you making an embarrassment of us.”

“Dear me,” Dumbledore says, leaning down to look more closely at Harry’s face. “You have grown so much.”

“Have we met before, sir?” Harry asks. “I’m sorry if I’ve forgotten you, but I don’t recall…” he eyes Dumbledore’s clothes, almost certain that he would remember if he’d seen anyone dressed like that in real life before.

“Yes, in fact, but only when you were very young. I don’t expect you would remember. Now, come along,” he says, extending his hand towards Harry, “let’s not bother your aunt and uncle any more.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The truth of the matter is, Petunia doesn't dislike Harry because she's envious of his magic.
> 
> She's just upset Harry cooks better.


	2. Magic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry discovers magic (or rather, it is revealed to him).

There is a dizzying swirl and a feeling of being tightly compressed before they appear in the very park Harry was thinking of only minutes ago. If not for the immense nausea he is currently experiencing, he might think it all a particularly strange dream sequence. It wouldn’t be the first time. Though he likes to believe his dreams have their moments of coherence, the vast majority are one-offs that make so little sense that sometimes, he can’t tell if they are dreams or especially striking stories he read somewhere, vivid accompanying illustrations and all.

Among his odder nighttime adventures as of late is a dream of him riding a very large orange shrimp like he imagines one might ride a dolphin…if dolphin saddles existed, and humans could breathe underwater, that is.

They say you can’t feel physical pain in dreams, after all—and what is this mind-scrambling dizziness if not another form of pain?

Dumbledore sits them down on a patch of grass under a familiar oak tree, and for a moment, Harry wonders if he can read his mind before shrugging the thought off. This is _reality,_ after all, and Harry is pretty sure he’s awake.

Then again, how did they get here? Weren’t they at Privet Drive only moments ago? As far as Harry knows, none of this should be possible, unless there has been a sudden leap in technology, and teleportation has been invented without Harry hearing of it. As cut off from the rest of the world as he is during the summer, he doesn’t think something like that could slip him by, not when his relatives would undoubtedly make a great fuss about it over dinner. Or maybe they would write it off as being abnormal, or a hoax, just like… _that_ doesn’t exist.

Harry adjusts his glasses, which were thrown askew by the sudden jolt of movement. He blinks a few times, but his vision remains slightly blurry in places, almost like the shimmer of heat haze, but subtler.  

“What,” Harry says, still disorientated, “was that?”

“Apparition,” Dumbledore explains, straightening his robes, “a form of magical transportation that allows the user to travel long distances almost instantaneously, provided there are no wards preventing entrance or exit from the location of departure or the destination. Quite like the Muggle concept of teleportation, in fact.”

Harry barely catches the words coming out of Dumbledore’s mouth. Teleportation, yes—but is he suggesting that whatever they just did _doesn’t_ count as teleportation, but rather…

“Ap—what?”

It’s like a whole other language, except most of what Dumbledore said _is_ unquestionably English, because Harry isn’t nearly as incompetent as his relatives make him out to be. He’s _eleven_ , and while he’s a child by anyone’s standards, he isn’t dumb.

It’s not French, which he learns at school, with its guttural R’s and airy sighs, and he doesn’t think it sounds like any other foreign accent he’s ever come across. Just plain English.

“Magic, Harry.”

“Magic is _real?_ ” Harry exclaims loudly before glancing around for onlookers, namely, his Aunt or his Uncle, who would both be decidedly displeased by the current topic of conversation. As he looks back to Dumbledore, he catches the brief flicker of what might be a frown before a kind smile replaces it.

Has he done something wrong? Harry is suddenly all too aware that he is sitting by a complete _stranger_ , and although Dumbledore claims to have met him in the past, neither of them truly knows the other. Harry doesn’t know how he should act, doesn’t know what Dumbledore expects of him, doesn’t even really understand why they’re here beyond Aunt Petunia’s vague remark about ‘schooling’. If it were during the school year, Harry would expect that Dudley told some lie about his behaviour to get him in trouble again, but school’s out and won’t be open for another month yet.

And that’s disregarding the revelation that _magic_ , a subject long-forbidden in their household, is—supposedly—real?

Harry finds that he doesn’t want to believe it, either because it’s been drilled into his head for the past however many years of vehement denial by his Aunt, or because it would upend his entire worldview. It would suggest that she knows and _knew all along_ , based on her interactions with Dumbledore at the door, and that Harry is entirely, horribly wrong in his understanding of why she hates even the slightest mention of magic so dearly. She expected Dumbledore, and Dumbledore did not hesitate to Ap—well, _teleport_ them right in front of her. Surely, assuming this isn’t all a heat-induced hallucination on Harry’s part (which is still doubtful), that just isn’t done? Harry can say for certain he’s never seen magic performed before him, ever, except for that one travelling magician who visited his school and put on a show in their sports hall, but that was obviously just pretend, for entertainment. He’s never met any adults who seriously believe magic to be real before.

But there lies the issue. Hasn’t he just witnessed, no, experienced it tangibly for himself? Unless he’s finally gone mad, which might just be preferable to the wild hysteria he feels threatening to come on, what Dumbledore did should be proof enough.

Magic is _real._

And Harry is disorientated in many more ways than merely physically.

“Haven’t you ever done anything out of the ordinary, Harry? Something unexplainable by conventional means, something that should have been impossible?” Dumbledore asks patiently.

 _Tons,_ Harry wants to say, but wasn’t everything conveniently explained away in the aftermath? _He must have seen wrong, it was a mass hallucination, get some proper sleep, boy, just his overactive imagination again…_ But, strangest of all…

It couldn’t have been a coincidence, could it? And yet, it was nothing like teleportation. It wasn’t any _good,_ as far as Harry can tell. He was helpless to do anything. It wasn’t handy like being able to instantly appear in another location, which is the sort of thing he’d expect a comic book superhero to be able to do. What if Dumbledore rejects him for it—what if Harry drives him away—and would that be so bad, going back to a world in which magic does not ( _‘It does NOT exist!’ his Aunt screeches_ ) exist?

This temporary dizziness might just go away.

But Harry wants to know. He wants to know if there is an explanation for all this, for everything _out of the ordinary_ that he ever experienced, and whether everything was a lie. He doesn’t think he could ever forget this harrowing dizziness and revelatory shock, ever forgive himself for turning away from this. He doesn’t want to look back years down the line and wonder _what if he didn’t run away?_ Running away is good, he knows, because avoiding injury is almost certainly better than getting _caught_. He knows this applies to all manner of interactions, but Harry Hunting demonstrates it most clearly in the form of cuts and bruises that pattern his skin.

But what if something is worth pursuing, despite certain injury? Is _magic_ worth it?

He looks uncertainly at Dumbledore, who nods in assurance. His decision is clear.

_Yes._

Harry steels himself and looks away again before dredging up an old memory. He doesn’t want to see Dumbledore’s reaction, no matter that he is choosing to take this step forward willingly.

“Once, when I was seven, I had this really vivid dream,” Harry begins. “Ripper, one of my Aunt Marge’s newly bred dogs, ate something bad, got sick, and died while visiting us.” The words are spilling forth like water, a burst dam somewhere within him after years of suppression. “I tried to warn them that morning, I really did, but they wouldn’t listen. They called me delusional instead. Later, it came true, and they insisted I must’ve done something, that I had been threatening them…” Harry runs his hand absently along a smooth tree root. “They even locked me up for a whole week. It was summer, you see, so there weren’t any teachers around to miss me. But I didn’t mean to, if that was magic, I swear. I didn’t want Ripper to die.”

He really didn’t.

Harry clutched at Ripper, who was so _small_ , even compared to himself, just a puppy really, then and forever in his memory. The bulldog, his face all scrunched up, vomited all over the living room rug in an involuntary, desperate attempt to expel whatever he had eaten. Aunt Petunia screamed in horror when she saw the mess and almost blamed Harry before spotting Ripper curled up beside him. Aunt Marge was called (' _RIPPY, NO!_ '), and they flipped through the phone book frantically. Then, Aunt Marge rushed Ripper to the closest animal hospital that was still open, but they were too late.

“Is that normal?” Harry asks quietly, still not meeting Dumbledore’s eyes.

“I think, Harry, you will find that not many things are ‘normal’ when it comes to magic,” Dumbledore says gently, his voice as smooth as the weathered oak roots beneath Harry’s fingers.

Dumbledore doesn’t understand, Harry realises. Harry wants to be normal. He needs it, whatever he can do, to be _normal._ To him, normal means fitting in, being accepted, and not being the unwanted outcast of the family who is barely tolerated. To be normal, for once, even among the extraordinary, is something he yearns for.

But he can’t tell Dumbledore that, can he? Not when Dumbledore believes so wholly that there is no ‘normal’ to be found in magic, and that, indeed, it might not be desirable at all.

“I can do magic, then? That was magic?” Harry asks instead. He still isn’t sure what really happened, and Dumbledore has yet to give him a proper rundown on, well, _everything._ “I thought I _had_ gone mad for a while,” he admits softly. He finally sneaks a peek at Dumbledore, and though the man’s expression is unreadable, Harry relaxes minutely. At least he isn’t showing any visible aversion.

“Yes,” Dumbledore says simply after a moment of consideration. “I believe it was.”

It’s almost laughably anticlimactic. There is no dramatic reveal, yet the lack of it sends Harry reeling off-balance. Ironically, Harry’s normal is _not_ being normal, so that is what he expects. Dumbledore doesn’t shake his head ‘no’ sadly, nor does he look at Harry in shock or abhorrence. Magic, it seems, just _is,_ and for the first time, Harry wonders if maybe, just maybe, it’s okay not to be normal when everything around him seems to be absurd.

Harry is reminded of what Aunt Petunia said before sending him off with Dumbledore. _Schooling._ In light of magic and death omens, it seems so painfully mundane and irrelevant. Tiny, like he is, compared to the great expanse of the sky, far away and out of reach. 

“Aunt Petunia said you came to talk about my schooling. What has that got to do with magic?” Harry wonders.

“It has everything to do with magic,” Dumbledore says. “I have a long story to tell you, so do make yourself comfortable.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Later, when Dumbledore finds himself recommending magical sweets to Harry, he notes that he has a Chocolate Frog Card of his own.
> 
> "You're on one?" Harry asks, eyes wide in wonderment, and Dumbledore can't help but promise to purchase some for Harry.
> 
> The first card Harry obtains, of course, is none other than Dumbledore himself.


	3. Apology

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We touch on the past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we observe my descent into madness. (I really shouldn't be splitting the chapters up like this, but I am, because writing anything longer really takes a toll on me with the amount of editing I do sometimes. And I get distracted easily. _re-read re-read re-read_ )
> 
> I also fixed up the summary and the tags a bit. They were messy before. (They still are, but I think it's not that bad now. I spent some time rethinking where I meant to take this.)

“There’s a school for magic?” Harry asks, awed. What more, he’ll be attending it in September? It feels unreal. He has a sudden urge to pinch his nose.

“Of course,” Dumbledore says. “It wouldn’t do to neglect the magical education of our children. Hogwarts is the very best in Britain—in all of Europe, if you don’t mind my boasting as her headmaster.”

“But, what—what is taught at Hogwarts?” It sounds so impossibly fantastical to Harry. Suddenly, maths and language and all that he has been learning in school so far seem so mundane in the face of sheer _magic_. Do magical schools teach those subjects, too? And, even if they do, Harry thinks it would never get old as long as magic were involved… For one, can chalk be floated around instead of held? It would be so much less dusty.

“Hogwarts is home to a number of subjects, each with its own professor, including Transfiguration, Potions, Charms, Astronomy, Herbology, History of Magic, and Defence Against the Dark Arts,” Dumbledore lists, though Harry can only guess what some of them entail. “There are other classes available to the upper years, but you shan’t need to worry about them for a while yet.”

Harry finds his interest piqued. “The Dark Arts?” he asks. It sounds dangerous, but at the same time, effective—like the sort of thing a classic fairy tale villain would practice. That impression is only reinforced by the necessity of the ‘Defence’ part of the class’s name.

“Yes. Just as magic has a great propensity for good, it may also be used for great evil. Your parents’ deaths were caused by one such wizard known as the Dark Lord.”

That can’t be right. Why would anyone target his parents? According to Aunt Petunia, they weren’t anyone worthy of a _Dark Lord’s_ attention (whatever a Dark Lord is, it sounds ominous and overbearing), and besides, they weren’t _murdered_. Harry knows that.

Still...Dumbledore hasn’t lied to him yet, as far as he can tell.

“Why?”

A mournful look falls over Dumbledore’s face like a shroud. “Your parents were quite the talented pair of witch and wizard, and two of his greatest adversaries. But, alas, I do not know why they were targeted specifically. The attack was very sudden.”

… Huh?

“I’m sorry, but…my parents died in a car crash. I don’t think…” Harry trails off uncertainly. He looks to Dumbledore for confirmation. He doesn’t receive it.

“No, Harry. Just under ten years ago on Halloween, he murdered your parents at your home, and then made an attempt on your life as well,” Dumbledore says.

Another lie? If Harry were to give his relatives the benefit of the doubt, he might consider the slim possibility that they lied to protect him, but…he doesn’t. It’s almost wholly irrelevant to the matter at hand. What’s most important, and at the forefront of Harry’s mind, is whether what Dumbledore is presenting is true—or, at least, true enough for him to rely on.

“It didn’t work,” Harry remarks.

“It didn’t.” Dumbledore smiles slightly at this, as though he is personally glad that Harry lived. “The Killing Curse rebounded and gave you that scar,” he says, raising a finger to brush aside Harry’s hair from his forehead. It tingles. Harry scrunches his eyes closed, and Dumbledore draws away again.

Harry always thought he had cut himself falling, somehow, though he knows it must have happened at a young age. He has had that particular, distinctive scar for as long as he can remember. He recalls the time when a sudden gust of wind swept him onto the roof with no reasonable explanation other than that he was hallucinating (if not for Dudley having been present as well, but he supposes it could have been a shared delusion, if he stretches it—Dudley isn’t all that bright—though he realises now that it was probably magic). It’s not implausible that he could have hurt himself in a similar incident.

Actually, he thinks his scar is sort of cool. It’s unique-looking, like a bolt of lightning, and it certainly beats any other one he has from various cuts and scrapes. There was a time around when he was five that he pretended it was the mark of a blessing from his fairy godmother. It was just wishful thinking, and he didn’t truly believe it—he isn’t that special—but it was nice. It’s odd to think that there might really be a story as interesting as ‘an evil wizard tried to kill me and gave me this scar’ behind it. It’s also rather worrying.

His stomach rumbles.

“Oh, dear,” Dumbledore says, chuckling amiably. “I think we’ve talked enough. Shall we continue over some food before purchasing your supplies?”

* * *

“I believe I owe you an apology, Harry.”

They are having lunch at the Leaky Cauldron before venturing into Diagon Alley for supplies, which is bound to be bustling. Harry thinks he is adapting well enough to the revelation that is magic, though he still spent a few seconds gaping at how the used dishes floated from a table to the kitchen of their own accord and a broom swept a pyramid of dust unsupervised in a corner.

It’s quite busy, which Harry is unused to (his relatives don’t bring him out very often, or at all, really), but he enjoys the atmosphere. It’s lively, and their cheer is trickling into his own mood. He strains his ears and focuses to hear Dumbledore over the din.

“Huh?” Harry peers at Dumbledore through his glasses. The lenses are slightly scratched, but they work well enough. “I don’t think…you haven’t done anything wrong,” he finally settles on saying.

Has he? Dumbledore didn’t have any way of knowing. As far as he knew, the attack was sudden, largely unprovoked, and with no apparent cause. There was no warning, not even in retrospect, and there were many others in need of protection also. His parents were not the only ones to raise children in the midst of war, or else he would have scarce few classmates—something which Dumbledore assured him would not be the case.

Yet they were the ones targeted, the ones who lie dead in graves unknown to him—but, no, they weren’t the only casualties. Only the ones that mean anything to him.

“It’s fine, really, Professor. Thank you for looking out for me—for explaining.” He tries for a reassuring smile. It’s not very convincing. He nervously prods a piece of carrot with his fork.

They said, his primary teachers, to practice speaking and expressions in front of a mirror, so as to simulate talking with another person, but his relatives never let him stay long. Hogging the washroom, they accused of him. ( _‘What the devil are you up to now, boy, talking to yourself and making a racket? We won’t have that!’_ ) He didn’t have a mirror in his cupboard.

“Oh, my dear boy,” Dumbledore says with a pained expression. “You are so strong. But you do not need to pardon an old man’s mistakes. I have finally seen, today, after a decade of wilful ignorance, the pain I have subjected you to.”

“I’m alive because of you,” Harry insists. “The wards…Voldemort not being gone for good…I don’t exactly get it, but you did what you thought was best.” He finally spears the carrot. It’s chewy.

“And yet I do not think I can allow this to continue, for my peace of mind as much as for your sake, Harry.” Harry must be showing his confusion on his face plainly, for Dumbledore continues. “You will not be returning to your relatives after this summer if I can help it. It is all too evident that they have not been treating you as they should—though I daresay the way they spoil Dudley is no good either, don’t you agree?” Harry nods along from force of habit. He swallows.

“But,” Harry protests, feeling a bout of panic at the sudden turn of events as if the floor has been swept from beneath him, “that’s not necessary. They treat me fine. I’m—I’m used to it,” he stumbles. “I don’t want to be a burden.” He fingers a paper napkin and wipes his mouth. The edge tears a bit.

“Oh no, never. You are not a burden, Harry, I assure you. I am truly glad to have met you. I would have preferred to place you with your godfather, but alas…” Dumbledore sighs sadly. He hasn’t touched his food. He didn’t order much at all, for that matter. Just a bowl of bright red tomato soup.

It matches Dumbledore’s robes, Harry notes, suppressing an anxious laugh. Harry picks up his fork again for something to do with his hands, but does not reach for his plate.

What Dumbledore said finally registers. “My godfather?” Harry asks, surprised. That’s new. All Harry has ever had are supposed drunkard parents he has never met who turned out to be magical (though that didn’t save them) and relatives who don’t care much for him at all. A godfather—now that is an abstract concept. It’s something he’d expect for Dudley, another avid doter to bestow numerous presents upon him on important occasions (his birthday, Christmas, every holiday imaginable—any excuse, really).

“Yes, Sirius Black. A brave man.”

“What happened to him?” Harry asks, because it’s clear he must have gotten caught up in the war as well. Hopefully, he’s just injured somehow, in a way that makes it so that he can’t raise a child, thus explaining his absence so far, because Harry, well—Harry would like to meet him someday. He must have been close to Harry’s parents to be named godfather, and surely, he would speak fondly of them, unlike Aunt Petunia, who has nothing but scorn etched into every line of her face.

“He was struck by an unknown curse and currently resides at the magical hospital, St. Mungo’s, in a coma,” Dumbledore explains, as kindly as he can without shying from the truth.

“Oh.” Harry feels his appetite waning rapidly, as though in free-fall. Arguably, it was already ruined by his combination of messy nerves and excitement, so he doesn’t mind much that their conversational topic is hardly suitable for lunch. “Will he ever wake up?” Harry asks, holding out hope.

“The Healers have tried, but…without knowledge of the exact curse used, they cannot produce the counter-curse. I’m afraid it is unlikely, unless we can find the caster.”

“Who?”

“A man believed to be dead.”

 _Oh._ Harry blinks. “I’m sorry,” he says softly, as though saying it too loudly will snuff out any breath of possibility that remains. It doesn’t feel quite real to him, all the casualties. Not yet. Dumbledore is tangible, as are the others going through the motions of life around him, enjoying their meals. (Or not; there is a couple arguing across the pub. “Oi, quiet down!” the barkeep shouts— _Tom,_ was his name?) Harry never knew those who were lost to the war; he couldn’t possibly put a name to a face or the other way around; he didn’t even know there was a war until today.

“I don’t see why you should be the one apologising,” Dumbledore says gently. His voice is soothing, a balm against Harry’s chafing worries. “You have lost a great deal more than I have.” Harry finds it a little odd that he can lose something he’s never had (as far as he’s concerned), but doesn’t voice this opinion.

“Was he your student?” Harry wonders aloud, shifting in his seat to sit just a little higher. It brings him closer to Dumbledore, and he is eager to hear about this Sirius Black. He doesn’t want to miss a single precious word.

Dumbledore smiles fondly. “Oh, yes. One with a great penchant for trouble. Detentions every week, as I recall. Drove Minerva—that’s the Gryffindor Head of House—up the wall. You’ll find that I have taught many students over the years and hope to teach many more in the future.”

He sounds nice. Free and uncaring of what authority figures think, unlike Harry, who is all too passive. Hopefully, the differences between them are not too great to overcome. Harry returns the smile, genuinely this time. “I look forward to learning from you, Professor.”

Over Dumbledore’s shoulder, Harry sees a silvery figure bound through the pub entrance, landing with a graceful hop. A patron bumps against the wall in surprise. It raises its head, scanning the crowd with its ears alert. Spotting them, it approaches and kneels at the side of their table. Harry doesn’t move. It’s a deer—one without antlers. A doe? Is that what she is?

Over Dumbledore’s shoulder, Harry sees a silvery figure bound through the pub entrance, landing with a graceful hop. A patron bumps against the wall in surprise. It raises its head, scanning the crowd with its ears alert. Spotting them, it approaches and kneels at the side of their table. Harry doesn’t move. It’s a deer—one without antlers. A doe? Is that what she is? Except, Harry realises, she looks more like a spirit or a ghost, so is she some form of magic, too? He’s tempted to pet her, and his hand flutters indecisively, but then he remembers how the _zoo incident_ ended. He has better not. His hand remains on the table, still grasping his fork, which has become warm from his palm. 

 _“Something urgent has arisen. I will inform you when I have returned to the castle,”_ it says in an unfamiliar voice. He sounds highly irritated, whoever it is.

Harry doesn’t think he likes him very much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Well, I suppose we may not be making it back in time for Aunt Petunia's dinner after all," Dumbledore remarks, entirely unfazed.
> 
> Harry is just confused. "Professor, what…?"
> 
> ~~~
> 
> I'm making myself feel like I'm trudging through sludge with all this talking 😂 I swear I'll get to the point eventually ('It's a necessary conversation!!' 'There's even a scene break in this chapter!!' hhhh) Yeah, it's slow, but that's how it is, and I'm committed to that. It's meant to be an exploration of this characterisation of Harry I have envisioned...or something. 
> 
> Hopefully this even makes sense. *crosses fingers*
> 
> (Also, am I overcompensating by being really nice about how Dumbledore's actions are portrayed or is that just Harry? I have such a soft spot for him)


End file.
